The purpose of living
by HeathenGoddess
Summary: Life happens, even if not in the way you planned it. A man's musings on how things turned out to be.


**Disclaimer:** All characters disclaimed to J. K. Rowling. I own nothing but this (excuse for a) plot.

How did he ever let this happen? How did he end up exactly like everyone that came before him, when he had sworn, to himself and to the people that he cared for the most, that he wouldn't? He could still remember how he felt back then, when he was having the best time of his life: so free, so happy, so full, so hopeful, so… _living_.

Yes. That's how it's best described. Living. He was teeming with life, with expectations, he felt like nothing could stop it, nothing could ruin it, and everything was going to be the way he and his best mates wanted it.

_They were giggling manically, the bubble of happiness inside them getting out in the form of a fit of uncontrollable, contagious giggles. The wind that hit their faces didn't do much to stop the feeling of exhilaration, either._

_There were four of them, and they were sneaking out of school in broomsticks they'd "borrowed" from the shed by the bleachers. _

_They were going to a rock concert. _

"_Can. It. Be. Any. More. PERFECT?" said one of them, the one with the long, black hair, inhaling the scented night air very deeply. _

"_Yes, it can, Padfoot. We could have nicked some liquor, too." Replied another, with specs. _

He remembered he was only half listening to his friends' jokes. He was fascinated by the feeling of happiness and life that assaulted him. His memory only served to highlight the sensation of emptiness he now felt.

_He was still laughing a little madly, and as he looked around and saw trees and lush green grass, and a few stray animals, and a zillion stars overhead, he let out a "Whoohoooo", to prevent himself from bursting. His three friends imitated him, and even let go of the brooms, throwing their arms up. They were dazzled by the mystery of life, of how large things were around them, and how beautiful and powerful, but they weren't afraid. They were part of it, they were inside life with every particle of their beings. _

_It took them a while, but eventually they reached a city, and whooped again at the sight of its many lights on; they found it marvelous that they were so high up in the sky, and felt daring and powerful. _

"_Hey, I'm gonna spit on someone's head! Let me find someone bald." His long haired friend said, and was stopped by the fourth boy, a plumpy blond. "Ok, enough, Padfoot, let's just land and go to the gig, already, I can't wait anymore!"_

"_You're right, Wormtail. Let's just do a thing, first", said his spectacled friend. _

Oh, how naïve and unsuspecting they were! He was so convinced that everything would go as planned, that he had the power to make everything go right, that his life would be that perfect and easy forever. Those times were only one page, one beautifully written page on the book of his life. He'd always been different, considered a monster by the society, and before he'd met his three best mates, had thought he'd be alone and weak for the rest of his life. But then they had come into his life. Like the four elements, he had thought they completed each other, that he had been chosen by the gods to be granted that gift. For the first time he had friends, friends who stood by him during the difficult moments of his life, and he felt that _nothing _could stop them when they were together. He was still dumbfounded by the fact that everything had gone so spectacularly wrong, that he had given up on everything he had held most dear.

_They had halted their brooms in midair, and were hovering above the city, camouflaged amongst a few clouds._

"_Let's promise ourselves that we shall never let anything change us, change this. Promise that we will always fight, that we will never conform to things, like our parents did, like their parents and the ones before them did. Let's promise, here and now, that we, not being the average brainless sheep that everyone else is, will always think for ourselves, will always do what we want, will struggle against the odds until we reach our dreams, no matter what they are, that we will change the world!"_

_At that time, the other three were laughing again, and punctuating the speech with "yeah!" and "hear!" and "ditto!" and "go Prongs!". The boy who had proposed the oath was water, if they'd classify them according to the four elements; he was a flood, strong, fast and unstoppable, barreling down on everything, neverminding the obstacles. _

_The long haired boy took the speech from him, with a spark in his gray eyes that reflected the desire and hopefulness, no, certainty, inside him. He was fire, hot and furious, and extremely hard to put out; he burned with life, no matter how people tried to put him out, envious and frightened by his exuberance and energy. _

"_And let's promise to never procrastinate, to do it and do it now, let's not waste life and opportunities, let's go out to the world and make things happen and have things to tell when we're old, let's always believe that we can and we will do and be whatever we want to, and to hell with all this tame security, the good old welfare state limping along in its half-baked way!"_

_The blond one went "And we must promise to be strong! Be resilient in the face of adversity, and let nothing make us crumble! And above all, promise to be together no matter what!" He was the air, never quite noticed by people but with much, much more than the eye could see; like the air, he was invisible, but vital to make everything happen. And that's exactly what he did. _

He remembered that he felt then an anguish inside him, and urge to go and do all the things they were saying, like there wouldn't be enough time to do everything later.

"_Goddamnit! I pity the fools who simply can't see!" he'd burst, then. "Who can't see beyond their silly lives and petty day-to-day things! It will sadly never occur to them that there is more to life than household things and rules and shit! There surely must be, in this magnificent existence so packed with things we haven't discovered and catalogued and controlled, something that rouses you, that makes your heart beat for real, that's worthwhile searching all over the world to find!" He was the earth, so large, and containing so many things that were worth looking for and getting to know, and so reliable and welcoming; he, like the earth, was strong and supportive._

_The four of them were quiet after that outburst. In unison, they stuck their right hands out and out them all one on top of the other, looking each other in the eye._

_Then they cried out in boyish laughter again, throwing their hands up._

"_Come on, we had a rock concert to go to, people! Let's go marauding, they won't know what hit them!"_

He let out and tormented moan, and buried his fingers in his hair. How the hell did everything go so wrong? When had the spark in his chest died, and why hadn't he noticed when it did?

He had realized, now that he was nearing forty years old, that he had become everything they had promised they wouldn't be. Accommodated, apathic, working nine-to-five on a job he hated and thinking of settling down with a woman much younger than himself only because she was the first to show him affection in many years. He was a sheep following the herd, as his friend so eloquently put it all those years ago.

Their lives had taken unexpected spins a few years after that perfect night. One of the four, the _air_, had screwed up so spectacularly that he still found it hard to believe. _Water_ had been killed, chopped in the prime of his life by the only obstacle bigger than himself, death. _Fire_ had suffered the fate he would certainly have classified as the first in a list of the most terrible fates anyone could have. It still hurt him to think of how much his wonderful and lively friend must have suffered, incarcerated, misjudged and tortured for more than a decade. He felt ashamed of himself for having believed all of those horrible things that were said about his best mate.

And then him.

Left suddenly alone in the world, having to fend for himself in a world that was prejudiced against him and without the help of his fantastic friends. Year after year he had to endure the burden of his happy past and his brilliant future that seemed more unlikely with every passing moment. He ended up forgetting that he had been granted one fleeting life to live, that time doesn't stop and the years don't go back.

A part of him thought that he mustn't chide himself so harshly; after all, lots of dreadful things had happened to make him lose all hope in life, and become this boring shell of a man he was now.

And then that's when it hit him.

That's exactly why he shouldn't have let himself be abated. He should go out there and do everything he had promised and more, suck out the stuff of life to the marrow, and then suck out the marrow as well, _for them_. He should do it for them, now that they couldn't do it themselves anymore. He'd do it even for the one who let him down the most, the _air_, because he had seen the spark in him too, knew that _then _he had meant what he had said; he probably would never know what had gone wrong and killed the spark, but he still pitied his former friend and thought that he should focus on the person he had been before that.

His chest seemed heavy and hot, as if full of lead, and he suddenly broke into a run, running down the stairs, throwing the door open and inhaling lungfuls of night air.

He was determined to do something. He didn't reckon he'd live much more, not when caught in a war, but he was determined to fight until the end, to give his blood and, if he survived, to enjoy life to the fullest, in tribute to those who had gone before him.

_**Two days later**_

There was a boy, no, a man, standing at the edge of a battlefield, looking through hardened eyes at the dreadful sight before him. He was searching for someone in particular. He cleaned the lenses of his glasses, shoved his wild black hair aside and looked a bit more. Suddenly, he spotted that person, and ran to them.

He raised the body from the mud and hugged it awkwardly. He ran his fingers through the man's scars, through the lines on his face; every one of it told a story. He was sorry he never got to hear those stories, the stories of a time long gone and of people who were never coming back. He sincerely hoped they had enjoyed it, before they went away.

And, if they hadn't, he'd do it for them. He'd do it for the man whose body he was cradling, for the ones he had loved, for his kin. Not to worry. As long as he had life in him, he'd savor it, the good and the bad moments, because that's what it was all about. He didn't know what the purpose of life was, but he figured the best way to start searching for it was… living.


End file.
